I took the train one Monday night never minding the flood of people joining in the rush. It was drizzling outside as crisp charges of light illuminate the dark sky. It was no cold to be out there that night. The city remained as it was . . . hot weather, bawling cars, infinite chatter. James Blunt's concert was at 8 pm at the Coliseum. I left home temporarily for this one. Left my books half-open, room's partially lit, the scent of sadness enveloping the room locked behind closed doors.
I was happy for a moment to hear hymns for lost souls played live. James Blunt made me feel better for a while. As I sat there at a dark spot where darkness seethed, the music entered my nerves and broke me into pieces. The atomized pieces of me were like the scene from the street few minutes before the rain: garland of yellow scallops falling gently into the air as small birds swoop into the descending petals; the birds trying to catch and save it from gravity.
James Blunt sang as if he was once in the hollows of the earth and that he knew everything. . .his music conveyed and crossed, probably, all human emotions. He wailed, laughed, made eccentric things like banging his head while playing the piano and erratic waltzing while strumming the guitar. He sang my favorite “I’ll take everything” like there’s no tomorrow. . .extending his left arm pointing to the vacuum in everyone’s spirit as he mellowed through the line in the chorus.
James Blunt made my night. It was a once in a lifetime experience to see him sing live at the Coliseum and to see myself mirrored before his songs. . .before everyone in the nameless crowd trying to digest a sad truth before us: that music is passion. . .and that passion couldn’t always come as easy with one’s life like in music and in any other art.